


I'm Glad You Kane

by bohnem990



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chicago Blackhawks, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3535805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bohnem990/pseuds/bohnem990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standard practice involves nonchalance. It's rude to ask what someone's words are, yet most people leave their words to be seen for public consumption. Clothes help cover the marks people don't want seen, but when it comes to people like Patrick, people who have to live constantly putting their bodies on display, other measures have to be taken.</p><p>He doesn't need another reason to be scrutinized as not "family friendly".</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Glad You Kane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jonnyhustle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyhustle/gifts).



> This fic is for [Natalie](http://toestoewstazer.tumblr.com) who prompted me _"the soulmate au where you get branded with your soul mates first words. Patrick's are "fucking horseshit fucking call"."_
> 
> There are bits and pieces of scenes in this fic that are probably inspired by other fics out there. Then again, it's hard to write any totally original work these days without being influences by something already written. Though, if you see something you recognise and want me to tag, just let me know. 
> 
> ALSO! There is a part in this fic inspired by the amazing penelopiad, here on ao3, who posted [this](http://apenelopiad.tumblr.com/post/112842928964/is-that-my-shirt-comes-jonnys-voice-from) fic I've been trying to find again! Someone linked it to me recently and thank you for that! So go read that fic as well, because part of this one was inspired by it! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr over [here](http://chicago-runsonduncan.tumblr.com)!

Over the last thirteen years Patrick has gotten acquainted with this part of his body. There's a wet tshirt thrown into the corner of his bathroom because Erica insisted years ago that using a tshirt to dry his curls would cause less frizz and he's kinda into that. There's a loud whirring sound taking up space in the room, an attempt to dissipate the steam cloaking the mirrors. 

He's standing around in his boxers, black Underarmour that cling to his ass perfectly. He only knows this because his latest hook up told him, not because he spends time staring at his ass in mirrors. That's more more of a Sharpy thing, so Patrick let's him have that.

The mirror is mostly clear by now and Patrick leans in, squinting into it as he pulls out a container of Mac Prep & Prime as well as a tube of Mac Russian Red lipstick from the black makeup bag sitting on the counter. And then a container of Maybelline Stay Matte Mouse in Ivory, because he's pale as shit. Patrick unzips his pouch of brushes, pulling a foundation brush from the casing and fluffing it lightly on his palm. 

The trick is applying the makeup to cool skin so it doesn't melt off right away. He needs the heavy duty stuff because he's a hockey player. He lives in a sheen of sweat, skin baking under layers of pads. He needs this to stay on from at least now to until he pulls his pads off at the end of practice.

With a sigh and a press of his lips, Patrick primes his chest, a vast stretch of marred skin on his collarbone, a petty attempt to hide the words that have taunted him for years. It's foolish, like the primer will hide the black ink seared into his skin for all to see. The lipstick comes next, carefully outlining the letters on his chest, making them stand out even more than before. Patrick's hand used to shake when he did this, but over over the years his hand has steadied with skill. He doesn't have to use Mac, but the glide is better, he's found. He's well acquainted with shades of red lipstick by now. Dipping his brush gently into the foundation, he presses it over the lipstick and watches, as amused as ever, as the words disappear from his skin. Patrick finishes it off with a quick spray of TRESemme Hairspray and that's all she wrote. The words he's had for the last nine years are gone, as if they were never there, and honestly, it's for the best or Sharpy would never let him live it down. 

It's the least favorite part of Patrick's morning routine, but that's the thing, it's a routine. He knows Kat Von D makes tattoo concealer, but since he was thirteen years old Patrick has always ended his morning bathroom routine by leaning in close to the mirror, outlining his words in red lipstick, smearing foundation over it, and then blending it out.

Most people don't cover their words, but most people don't have words like Patrick. His mother was horrified when they came in, "Fucking horseshit fucking call" scrawled across the collarbone of her thirteen year old son. She cried for hours until Erica taught him, that very day, the makeup trick she'd found on YouTube. Since then he's always covered his mark. 

Standard practice involves nonchalance. It's rude to ask what someone's words are, yet most people leave their words to be seen for public consumption. Clothes help cover the marks people don't want seen, but when it comes to people like Patrick, people who have to live constantly putting their bodies on display, other measures have to be taken. 

Skin patches exist for those who are willing to be whispered about, people like Sidney Crosby. Though for him, it's just another nuance. Patrick doesn't want to be thought about like that. The makeup gives him pure, unblemished skin and let's people assume his mark is in a place that stays covered by clothes. He doesn't need the world gawking at his words. 

He doesn't need another reason to be scrutinized as not "family friendly".

The thing is, over the years Patrick has learned to love his words. He jerks off to those words, fingers tripping over his collarbone in the dark, nails biting into the skin and imaging someone's mouth instead. He likes a bit of pain with his pleasure and that's not a crime. 

He can hear the words rolling off the tongue of the man they belong to. Patrick's heard him say them more than once. It seems to be a favorite of his, like he knows what he’s doing to Patrick when he speaks them. Over the years Patrick has conditioned himself to get hard when he hears them and it's not exactly the best when he hears them on the ice. 

That's where he first hears them. On the the ice. 

*

Locker rooms were crucial to team chemistry, Patrick knows this. But he’s only thirteen and he’s playing hockey on the Junior Flyers. They’re having their summer tournament and he is so damn nervous when he's stepping out of his flip flops as he walks into the locker room. 

Carefully he puts his gear bag into his locker and sits down, hands shaking as he pulls his shirt over his head. The words on his chest still make him anxious and he doubts his makeup skills at this point. He’s only been covering the words for a few months and he doesn’t want to be chirped about it his first day of the tournament. He doesn’t want to be chirped about it ever. 

He’s standing now with his face in his locker, checking obsessively at his mark, slow as he pulls his pads on to his slim shoulders. He can hear someone screaming Toews name and Patrick flinches. He’s thirteen years old, but already he knows there’s something strangely beautiful about Jonathan Toews. 

Once he’s got on his pads and skates on he walks out of the locker room and onto the ice. That’s what Patrick does, he means business. He skates, he pushes everything else from his mind and he pours his soul onto that ice. 

For days, that’s how things go. He dresses, skates, and doesn’t talk to much of anyone. Their goalie, Eric Warner, worms his way into Patrick’s life, screaming and joking. It’s the practical jokes, Patrick knows, that win him over. 

He’s barely got one foot into the door on their first game day, early practice before they have to go on the ice later and test the way they truly mesh, how many goals they can net, how many games they can win. 

“WHAT THE FUCK, YOU ASHOLE.”

Jonathan Toews is standing in front of his locker. There’s a sheen of baby powder covering his black Underarmour tee, pads in a heap at his feet and the look in his eyes is murderous. Thirteen years old and he looks like he wants to kill everyone in that room. 

Patrick rolls the word fuck around in his brain. They’re young, swearing is new and the cool thing to do and they’re hockey players. It’s something that’s oddly expected of them, but Patrick has yet to really indulge. He wonders how the person who speaks his words will say it, how it will sound falling off their tongue, if it will make his heart stop. But now, all he does is walk over to Eric and thump him on the back, wide grin splitting his face. 

Patrick likes Toews, but who doesn’t like a friendly competition?

That night, they play beautiful hockey. 

Patrick’s playing right wing on the first line, he’s been on the ice for half of the first period already and the second period has just started; his blood is pumping. He’s just dumped himself off the bench and onto the ice, Toews right next to him with a gritty look on his face and the baby powder incident long forgotten. This is about hockey. 

One of their D-men sends Toews a pass from behind the blue line and he sends it beautifully to Patrick, settling perfectly on his tape and Patrick’s on a breakaway, no one even close to him. He can taste the goal. Except suddenly there’s a kid from the other team right behind him and 180 pounds of mass is being slammed into Patrick’s 140 pound frame and he goes down hard. His chest hurts from where it smashed into the side of the rink where the glass ends and he’s laying on the ice, trying to remember what breathing is. 

The ref is taking his place on center ice, calling a two minute penalty for boarding. Patrick scoffs, but ends up coughing instead, finally on his knees, bent over and trying to remember what oxygen tastes like. Patrick thinks Eric comes out of his goal, trying to get his hands on the kid who checked him into the boards and the only person coming over to Patrick is Jonathan. 

His hands come up under Patrick’s armpits and he’s hauling him up off the ice like he weighs as much as a feather. Which, good point, he probably does compared to everyone else on the team. 

“Fucking horseshit fucking call,” Toews says to him with a glare, arm slinging around Patrick’s shoulders as he guides him back to the bench. 

“You need to see the doc?” he frowns, pulling the door to the bench open and shuffling Pat through it. 

Yes, he needs to see the doctor. Patrick doesn’t say this though. He stares at Jonathan with wide eyes, an entirely new reason as to why he can’t breathe. He must take that for an answer and Patrick scratches himself from the rest of the game. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to get back on the ice, Pat?” Doctor Christiansen, who insists everyone on the team calls him Mack, asks him for the third time.

Fuck no, Patrick does not want to get back onto the ice. The team is winning 3-0 and he’s pretty sure that Eric is going to shutout. They’ve been playing harder ever since Patrick left the ice. Jonathan looks like he’s one hit from getting into a fight and Patrick would kind of pay to see that. He would pay to see a lot of Jonathan. 

“My chest feels -” Patrick shrugs and peers up at the TV, watching his boys kill it out on the ice without him. 

And his chest does still feel.. he doesn’t have the words for it. His lungs hurt and he swears his ribs rattle with every breath he takes. There is a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow down and out of his shoulder pads and just sitting his Underarmour, he swears he can feel the makeup melting off his collarbone, words screaming to be seen, to be heard. 

He knows now what the word fuck sounds like coming off Jonathan’s tongue, wonders what it would sound like coming. 

Patrick presses a hand to his crotch at that thought and closes his eyes. Mack pretends not to notice. 

“What are the chances you think Eric is gonna shutout?” 

Patrick aims to keep his voice light, like he isn’t internally freaking out and planning way to dodge Toews for the rest of Junior Flyers. He isn’t ready to be gay, he isn’t ready to be that kind of social pariah. 

“Oh, Pat.” 

Mack is looking at him with this sad gaze, like not being in the game is the reason for the hitch in Patrick’s voice. 

“Those boys are fighting for you, can’t you see it? Jonny looks like he’s about to throw punches.”

“If Toews gets into a fight over me -” 

But Patrick can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t know what he would do if Toews does that. Throw up, seems to be the most probable option. 

“Jonny doesn’t fight.”

“Yeah, he fucking better not.” 

Patrick tests the way the word tastes in his mouth, but he finds it sticks, too. 

All he can think about is his mother crying months earlier when his words had come in, so disappointed in the woman that he would eventually come to love. It hurts, barbs in his chest right under the words like they needed to be pried from his skin. Words that his mother would never approve of, words that were so unlady-like. But how is Patrick supposed to tell his mother that the words belonged to a boy? To a man who would grow up to be a hockey player. One of the best, if Patrick knows anything about hockey. 

His mother would cry when she found out, and that is the last thing Patrick wants to make his mother do. 

They win the game; in Patrick’s honor, Eric tells him. And somehow, Patrick manages to evade speaking a single word to Jonathan Toews. 

Patrick used to think his words were special, that whoever spoke them would be one of a kind, someone made to fit next to him perfectly. Patrick used to be proud of them. Now, Patrick is ashamed. He is glad they are covered, he plans to keep his mouth closed and hope he doesn’t cross Jonathan Toews’ path again. 

Patrick wants to be loved, but not at the cost of his mother’s.

*

Patrick moves to Michigan when he's fourteen. He's playing midget hockey in Detroit and living with a ex-pro NHL star, Pat Verbeek, and Patrick isn't sure if it gets better than this. 

He's ignoring the fact that he tried to quit just a week into the whole ordeal. 

Carter Eakin is a solid dude. He's Patrick's road roommate straight out the gate and he deals with Patrick's weird habits. Like how he can't fall asleep without jerking it. 

It takes about ten games for Carter to realize Patrick has a night routine. Before bed, he takes a shower and when he’s in the shower he gets off. That’s like his once a day and he’s a teenage boy, so Patrick figures there’s nothing really weird about that. He doesn’t really like having to jerk off standing up and the water kind of distracts him from really getting into it, but he’s not about to ask Carter to take a fifteen minute walk once a night. So he kind of just grits his teeth and deals with it. Patrick is getting off on the regular still, so what is he really going to say about it? 

They’ve just lost a game, brutally. It’s 4-0 shutout and Maxi, their goalie, is having a fit afterwards. One broken goalie stick later and their coach had a seriously long conversation with the team and Patrick wants nothing more than to get off and go to sleep. Except he’s already in bed and he doesn’t exactly have the energy to get up and take another shower just so he can eek out an orgasm after that shit show. 

The sheets on his hotel bed are too scratchy. Patrick sighs, louder than necessary, and turns over. He’s facing Carter now and he can barely make out the outline of his face. He can see that his eyes are closed, no glassy sheen staring back at him. 

Patrick moves again, bare feet rubbing against each other. It takes him a second, but he realizes he’s been moving them in the tune to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Patrick snorts and curls his fingers into the sheets bringing them tight under his chin. His jaw moves with the beat of the song, clacking his teeth together as he sings the words in his head. 

He can’t sleep. It just isn’t possible to shut off his mind without an orgasm. 

“Just do it.” 

Pat stops moving entirely, frozen as Carter’s words seem to bounce off the walls of the tiny hotel room. 

“I know you fucking rub one out every night in the shower, so just do it. You’re annoying the shit out of me and I want to sleep.”

“I don’t feel like getting up,” Patrick says, petulant like a child. 

“So don’t. I don’t care, I just want to sleep.” 

Pat can see Carter across the room. He hasn’t moved and if Patrick didn’t know better, he would assume he was still sleeping. Except he isn’t and he’s just told Pat to jerk it while he’s only feet away. Patrick’s dick is suddenly really into that. Patrick tries to ignore how gay that is.

It takes Pat a deep breath, or ten, but he finally gathers the courage to push his boxers down around his ankles and shove his shirt up his body so it’s caught underneath his armpits. The fist he gets around himself is tentative and he’s so worried about being loud, so he shoves the bed covers into his mouth and bites down. God only knows what’s probably on those things and he’s idly hoping that housekeeping actually does their job so he doesn’t contract mouth herpes or something because that would not be attractive. But maybe it would help keep Jonathan Toews away from him. 

It’s dry, the tug of his palm against his dick rougher than usual, but he’s finding that he doesn’t actually mind. It’s kind of hot and he brings his free hand up to skim across his chest, feather light touches running circles around his nipples before closing in, pinching hard and rolling them between his fingers. It makes him hiss and arch his back, white hot heat racing down his body with the shock of it. He does it again and again until he can’t handle it, until he’s aching with the need to get his hand tighter around himself and really work, rough motions pulling pleasure from his body. 

It’s intense. It’s always intense, but it’s different now. He can hear Carter laying in the bed across from him. He’s mouth breather and somehow Pat has managed to sync his strokes with Carter’s breaths - upstroke, thumbs the head of his dick, slides down, twists his nipple. A whimper pulls itself from Patrick’s throat and he tries to stifle it, but he just can’t. It’s loud in the otherwise quiet room and Carter shifts in his bed. It should make Patrick stop what he’s doing, but it doesn’t. Instead it pulls another sound from him and then Carter moves for real, rolling onto his back and Patrick is peering at him across the divide, a glob of precum spilling from his dick and over his thumb. 

He’s pushing his hips up into his fist, bringing his hand down from his nipples to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm when he swears he can see Carter fisting his own cock under the covers. 

Patrick can’t help it. He’s pushing his head back against the pillows and a sound is torn from his throat as he can feel the beginning of something bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He wants to know what Carter’s dick looks like. He’s a teenage boy and everyone in the locker room is playing the comparison game, especially at their age, but Patrick really wants to look at it. He wants to know if Carter is cut or not. He wants to know if Carter has the same vein running down the base of his cock. He wants to know what Carter would taste like on his tongue. 

It’s gay. It’s so fucking gay, but Patrick doesn’t care. He only cares about getting off right now, the burning in his belly is rising and he presses a finger into his perineum, rubbing a right circle into the skin there and it causes him to jolt, a moan torn from his throat.

“Fucking Christ, Peeks,” Carter groans and turns his head to look at Patrick and yep, he definitely has some hand on cock action going on under his covers. 

It’s the realization that he’s being looked at, that he’s giving his roommate a show that brings him shockingly close to the edge so quickly, but he hangs there, unable to come just yet. 

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, but Patrick brings the hand on his balls back to his chest as the one on his dick squeezes tighter, hips fucking up into the tunnel his hand makes. The makeup is still tacky on his skin, a little worn down since it’s been on all day and unwashed from a second unneeded shower. Patrick presses his fingers in, digging under the bone of his clavicle and nails biting at the skin. It’s the pain that does it, the flash of Jonathan Toews face through his brain that sends him crashing, back arching over the bed and coming all over himself, spilling over his hand and thankfully not the covers. 

“Fucking shit,” he’s grinding out, turning his head to lock eyes with Carter who’s looking straight back at him, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Pat brings his dirty hand to his mouth, licking over his come covered fingers and grinning. 

That’s what seems to pull Carter into his own orgasm, mouth open in a silent moan as he crashes. It’s startlingly beautiful and if Patrick hadn’t just come, he would definitely get at least a little hard at the sight of it. 

“Next hotel night, we’re doing that together.” Carter is pulling tissues from the box on the nightstand and not looking at Patrick, but Patrick can’t really look at him now either. 

“Okay,” he says and pulls his boxers back up, turning onto his side away from Carter and finally settling into sleep.

*

Chicago has been his temporary home for less than twenty four hours when his worst nightmare comes to a head. He knew this would happen, obviously. This is Chicago and these are the Blackhawks and ESPN is already branding Toews and Kane. Patrick is going to have to say something to Jonathan and watch the hopeful look pull across his features as Patrick says whatever words are printed on Jonathan’s skin. Patrick will not to react, will keep the promise he made four years ago as he sat in the infirmary when he scratched from that Junior Flyers game. 

Coach Savard wants them to meet, bright and early, and Patrick is not prepared for this. Not without at the very minimum a venti Starbucks coffee. So maybe he’s late to the meeting. Honestly, Patrick doesn’t care. 

“Alright boys, it’s so great to have you both in Chicago. I can feel that something big is going to happen here.” 

Savard is grinning from behind his desk. They’re sitting in his office and Patrick is more so staring at his coffee cup and sipping is as slowly as possible, than listening to anything that Jonathan has to say. He makes sure to nod in the right places and present the front that he’s really not a morning person and can they please not do this again? 

The meeting ends with the two of them being told to get into their gear and get onto the ice with the rest of the team. Patrick can do that because he knows hockey. What he doesn’t want to know, is Jonathan Toews. But Toews has different ideas. 

“Honestly what the fuck, man.” 

Toews has a death grip on Pat’s forearm and it takes a lot more strength than it should to shake him off. 

Pat stares at him blankly and doesn’t respond. 

“Why the hell do you hate me so much? What the fuck did I fucking do to you?” 

Jonathan has to know better. He has to know what is going to come rolling out of Patrick’s mouth, thinking the words over carefully, but knowing that in truth he has no choice about what words are going to be inked into Toews skin. They were already there and this moment was always destined to happen. 

“Because you’re an asshole.” 

The words make Patrick’s shoulders sag with relief. He’s been carrying those words with him for four years now and it feels right to say them. It feels more right than the game winning goal he scored only months earlier in Sweden, and that little fact makes Patrick feel sick. 

Toews face lights up, brighter than it should have been at being called an asshole, but Patrick doesn’t react. He’s been preparing himself for this moment for a long time, for the moment Toews will get the idea in his head that they’re soulmates. 

Patrick continues to stare at him blankly and eventually Jonathan’s excitement ebbs away. Patrick is sure it’s not the first time Jonathan will be called asshole. 

 

His new teammates are the best. Sharpy has hair Patrick wants to pet, so he does. He also licks Sharpy’s cheek after he does it and watches Seabs and Duncs burst into laughter. 

“How do you keep popping up out of nowhere!” Sharpy, “The better Patrick”, huffs and tries to hit Pat in the stomach, but he moves out of the way too quickly and snickers. 

“I’m gonna call you Lil Peekaboo cuz you just fuckin’ ‘Peek-A-Boo’ and one day you are gonna get smacked.”

Patrick laughs louder and hides behind Seabs because he’s twice as big as Pat and at least he thinks Pat is funny. 

Jonathan is sitting at his locker, glaring at their antics. Patrick really doesn’t care. 

He does care, however, when coach assigns them as road roommates. 

“Coach, I really just can’t room with him.” 

“You’re a team. I need you to be a team. I can’t have you hating each other.” 

Like the screaming they do on the ice wasn’t enough of a clue that they hate each other? How is making them room together going to solve that? 

“I don’t think forcing us to spend time together is going to help, Coach.”

“Too bad,” Savard says, crossing his arms against his chest and ruffling like a pufferfish about to spew its deadly toxin everywhere. At least, Patrick thinks pufferfish do the toxin jet thing, but he’s not one hundred percent sure. 

“You’re rooming together and that’s final, Kane.” 

And that really is final. Jonathan is a horrible roommate, but Pat thinks he does most of it on purpose to piss him off. Like when he leaves his damn water bottles all over the place when there are perfectly good trash bins in the room. He’s the messiest person Patrick has ever met and he knows Jackie who never learned what a closet was. Apparently neither did Jonathan. 

There are socks and pants strewn across the room, a lingering stench of musky boy that Patrick hates at first. The longer he’s forced to room with Jonathan, the more he learns to love it. The smell clings to the inside of his nose when he jerks off in the shower at night, Jonny on the other side of the door, unknowing that he’s the object of Patrick’s affection. 

Unwanted affection. Patrick hates himself for how much he wants Jonathan. 

Except Savard is doing some voodoo magic on them because the more time Patrick spends with Jonathan, the less time he spends hating him. In fact, he starts calling him Jonny. It is disgusting. But it is also easier to call out when he comes. 

*

The team is sitting down for morning breakfast in Buffalo and Patrick isn't nervous about winning, but he is nervous. He doesn't need his mother and his soulmate in the same place. He especially doesn't need Jonny around Erica who knows they’re branded together, who thinks Jonny is attractive and wants to get to know him better. 

"But what's your soul mark even say, man?" Seabs is asking Sharpy with a gleam in his eye, like he already knows what the answer is. 

Seabs is the team’s secret keeper, he’s the man who knows everything and strategically drops the bomb on everyone when he thinks the time is right. Note, when he thinks. He never asks the person in question if it's okay. Patrick isn’t sure who would actually tell Seabs anything and expect him to keep his mouth shut. Except that Sharpy hasn’t been able to shut up about Abby, who said his words to him a few weeks ago and really, they’ve all been dying to know. Seabs has clearly decided that now is the time to know. 

Patrick hadn't been awake enough to register how this conversation started. 

"Fuck you."

Duncs is laughing, full belly that has Pat worried he's going to get a face full of eggs. 

"But seriously, Sharpy’s words are the fucking best. It's better when Abby tells it though." 

Duncs is about to bust his gut and Seabs just looks smug. Sharpy swears and studies his heap of hashbrowns before shoveling them into his mouth with the intensity of sleepy Jonny. 

And shit, now Patrick is thinking about shoving things in Jonny's mouth. 

"At least where is it?" Burrish crosses his arms, the stark black mark of his words standing out against the skin of his forearm. Burrish is the only person Patrick knows that wears his words proudly. 

"They’re on his inner thigh," Seabs supplies for him. 

The table bursts into laughter, Pat chuckling with them because that just fits Sharpy so well. 

"It says 'Your hair isn't even that great' okay?" Sharpy is frowning, face aflame with red shame streaked across it. Patrick's own collarbone throbs in sympathy. 

"Mine says 'Because you're an asshole'."

Jonny's face is practically in his cup of coffee and he's giving away nothing. Pat's heart skips about five beats and Seabs thumps Jon on the shoulder. 

"At least we know your soulmate is a solid lady."

"Not a lady." 

No one says a word. Patrick is two seconds away from bolting from the scene of the crime, a mess of 'horrified ashamed embarrassed' coursing through his veins in paralyzing fear. 

"A solid dude, then." Burrish shrugs and the rest of the table seems to quietly agree. The pinch of fear nestled between Jon's serious eyebrows melts away and Patrick wonders if he was the only person who saw it happen. 

Patrick doesn't acknowledge the words. In fact, he quietly side steps Jonny all day. 

 

It comes to a head that night on the ice.

Patrick doesn't even realize he's doing it. It's like Junior Flyers all over again. He's not actively seeking Jonny out. His body doesn't just know where Jonny is and Pat doesn't care. He finds the back of the net on a sick turnover, so he doesn't see the problem.

Jonny does. 

"I'm fucking open, asshole! How about you try passing to me and maybe we'll win the game!"

They're playing the Sabres, they're the going to win the game.

"Fine, you fucker!"

Jonny blanches, like Pat just tossed a homophobic slur at him. And shit, he kind of had if he thinks about it the right way. Jonny probably did. 

Patrick skates away from him, a spray of snow kicking back up from behind his skates. He feels dirty, but he's trying to ignore it. His collarbone throbs. 

The next time they get on the ice, Patrick manages another turnover and finds Jonny, sending and beautiful pass right into his tape. Jonny scores off it, a wrister that sinks hard into the back of the net.

"Thank you!" Jonny's sneering. His celly is more of and shove it into Pat's face celly than and goal celly.

Pat raises a gloved finger at Jon, cataloging the annoyed appreciation on his face. That's definitely going into the spank bank. 

"How about fuck you!" 

Patrick skates off. 

They win the game, but it doesn't cure his annoyance. When the reporters get in his face, Patrick fakes a smiles and talks about that pass he sent Jonny. It's a really good thing Pat doesn't have a mic in his face when he's playing. Savard would kill him and he doesn't doubt he would probably be traded next season.

 

Jonny sits next to him on the bus. Jonny stands next to him in the elevator. Jonny crowds Patrick’s space like he wants to make sure he breaths as much of Jonny’s air as he can. It’s aggravating and Patrick doesn’t know if he wants to punch Jonny or kiss him. 

“You’ve hated me since Junior Flyers. We were thirteen, Pat..”

Jonny looks so forlorn as the hotel room door closes behind them and for a moment Pat gets a flash of Carter in his mind, shaking it off quickly. 

“Just tell me what I did to you so I can apologize and we can maybe act like teammates. It can’t be -” 

The fight goes out of Jonny and he slumps against the door, thunking his head back against the painted wood as his eyes concentrate on the ceiling.

“It can’t be because I’m gay,” he whispers the word, soft like the touch Pat wants to feel against his skin but also cannot say out loud. “You just found that out this morning and -”

“You didn’t do anything.” 

Patrick knows he’s being unfair to Toews. He hasn’t done a damn thing to Patrick besides exist and that’s really not his fault. He can’t help that he was born. Toews just scares Patrick, makes him feel like his mother wouldn’t love him if she knows who Jonny is to him. Patrick is nineteen years old and he’s never heard his parents say a single negative thing about homosexual people, but he doesn’t want the first negative thing he hears to be about him. 

Jonny doesn’t believe Pat. He knows this because Jonny has removed his gaze from the ceiling to settle on Pat. He feels naked. He feels like Jonny can see right into him, can see how much he wants to know what Jonny feels like against him, wants to know what his lips taste like on Pat’s. 

But if Jonny knew those things he wouldn’t think Pat hates him. 

“I don’t hate you.”

“You really fucking could have fooled me.” 

Those words hitch in Jon’s throat, the word that haunted Patrick -still haunts Patrick- making him stand up from where he’s been perched at the end of his bed and pull Jonny away from the door. He curls his arms around Jon, loose and scared, presses against him from shoulder to thigh and hangs on. 

This is, abstractly, so gay, but Patrick really can’t be assed to care. 

“I don’t hate you,” he’s repeating. “You’re just an asshole. 

Jonny gives a watery laugh. “Yeah, you told me.”

Patrick doesn’t know why, but the way Jon smiles at him then, soft and private and made just for him, makes Pat comes to the realization that things are going to be alright.

*

They win the motherfucking Stanley Cup and it takes everything Patrick has not to kiss Jonny square on the mouth. He’s tipsy by the time the team hauls themselves out of the locker room, but so is every other guy on the team. Patrick has never been more in love with life or with Jonny than he is in this moment. 

Alise is tiny and blonde with spidery eyelashes and perfectly white teeth. She can hold her liquor and does vodka shots with him with no chaser. If Patrick liked women she would be his type. So of course he takes her home, it just makes sense. 

Patrick wears shirts when he fucks. He plays it off as a kink he has, being covered, like he was in such a rush to get his hands on the other person that he couldn’t be bothered to pull his shirt over his head in that one handed in that way that all guys do. 

But afterwards, as he crawls out of bed after round two, Patrick drops his shirt into the growing heap outside his bathroom door. He knows it’s been too long for the makeup to still be fully on his skin, but Alise is sleeping and he wants to shower and get the tacky feel of cum off his skin and back into bed for maybe round three. 

Pat isn’t into women, but he sure as hell is into anal, which Alise apparently loves. Check yes in the repeat performance box please. It means he can do her from behind, hips snapping into her plush, round ass, and close his eyes, imagining that her thighs are little more sculpted, that the smooth globes of her asscheeks are that way because of the endless time she spends on the ice. He can close his eyes and imagine Jonny’s face, can bite his lip and choke back his name as he comes. 

Pat turns the shower on, letting it run for a moment to warm up. He likes his showers scalding hot, the kind of shower that turns his skin pink and raw. He’s staring intently in the mirror, peering at his words with squinted eyes; he can make out where it says ‘fucking call’ and he smudges his thumb through the beginning of the sentence, makeup rubbing off under the pressure, giving way to ‘fucking horseshitf’ and there, the whole thing is visible and Pat sighs in relief at it. He’s so tired of hiding. 

Tiny hands slide around Patrick’s waist, pressing into the hollows of his hipbones and he flinches. No one has ever seen his words before that wasn’t his family. 

“Are those your -” 

Patrick’s heats in embarrassment, from his forehead and all the way down his chest, blotchy and obscene, and he’s pulling out of her arms. He wants to run away from her, but this is his house and he suddenly needs her out. 

“Doesn’t Jonny say that a lot?”

What the fuck. Of course Patrick would pick up the one girl in the bar who knows anything about them. 

Patrick shuts off the shower and the idea in his mind he’d had about round three. 

“I think you should leave.”

Alise is staring at him like he has two heads, like Pat just told her he killed her puppy, like Pat had just asked her to sign a - 

Wow, great idea. 

There’s a stack of papers in the table next to his bed that he’s never actually pulled out before. Everyone on the team gets them and Pat knows a few of the guys who use them, but Pat doesn’t. He thinks they’re a bit excessive. 

Excessive is exactly what he needs right now. 

“Are you seriously throwing me out right now?” Alise’s voice is high and whiny, the way Erica’s gets when she wants her way but knows Pat is going to win. 

Patrick digs a pen from the bowels of the drawer and slaps the papers on top of the dresser. 

“It’s an NDA -non disclosure agreement, and I think you should sign it and then leave.”

Pat seriously could have gotten some more awesome sex from this girl, but instead he’s sitting on his bed watching her tiny hand grip the pen. It’s the same hand that had just been on his dick and it looks so startlingly different now. 

“You’re an asshole.” The words are spit at him as she pulls her bra on, lacy and red, and it makes him laugh. Anger looks good on her, especially half naked. 

“Like I’ve never heard that before.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes and settles back against the pillows. His arms cradle his head and he closes his eyes, imagining the sounds of her moving around the room are Jonny instead, like when he’s woken up for an early workout and he doesn’t want to wake Patrick up. Except Jonny wouldn’t slam the front door like Alise did. 

Patrick doesn’t care. He’s just won the Stanley Cup, she signed the NDA, and he’s totally going to jerk it to those words. 

He’s an asshole and maybe he and Jonny really are made for each other. 

*

In the summer of 2012, Patrick’s soul cracks open. Something inside of him breaks and he decides the only thing to cure the empty longing he feels is alcohol and women. He doesn't even like women, but that's far from the point. 

Patrick spends a weekend getting spectacularly drunk. He remembers none of it. He definitely doesn't remember choking a girl out. 

Back in Chicago, Jonny looks at him with these sad eyes and asks what on earth happened. Pat has absolutely nothing to say for himself. He doesn’t know how to explain the whirlwind of thoughts flying around in his head, the way he can’t make them stop so he can line them up and have them make sense. 

"I'm not judging you, Pat, but I need to know what's going on so we can talk to PR."

Jonny says it so sincerely, his voice dipping softly, reaching out and curling itself around Pat like the hugs from Jonny he only gets when they're both drunk. It’s the only time Patrick let’s himself take what he wants from Jonny, sitting on his lap as the alcohol courses through his veins. It’s then he has the cushion of lowered inhibitions to blame his actions on, arms curled around Jonny’s neck, lips pressed to close to his ear as he whispers nonsense. 

“I’m just really sad, okay.” 

Pat wants to cry. There’s a movie playing in his mind, a reel of every single time he’s fucked up and he just can’t make it stop no matter how hard he tries. It’s been like this since Madison, huddled on his couch -the one he has that matches Jonny’s perfectly- with a blanket around him because he’s scared to go home to Buffalo. 

If there’s one thing that terrifies Patrick worse than a career ending injury, it’s losing his mother. And right now, that’s all he can think about. He wonders when he’s going to push too hard, ask too much, fall too far. He thinks this is the thing that will ruin everything. How is he supposed to go back to Buffalo and tell his mother he doesn’t even remember choking the girl? He’s not, and that’s why he’s still in Chicago. 

“Why are you sad, Pat?” Jonny is asking like he doesn’t already know the answer. Pat can’t look at him when his eyes are that earnest, when he wants to fall into Jonny, crawl into his skin and never resurface. 

“How can you be so okay with it?” The words tumble from Patrick’s lips without his permission. 

“With Madison? Because I’m -”

“With being gay!”

Pat at least has the decency to look ashamed when he realizes what he says. Jonny balks and he fists a hand on his thigh. Patrick is unsure if he’s going to be punched in the face or not. It would probably be a good reaction and Pat wholly deserves it. 

“What does my being gay have anything to do with this?” Venom is dripping from Jonny’s voice, tight and icy in a way Patrick has never truly heard before. 

“Everything!” Patrick cries, pulling the blanket around his shoulders in tighter, trying to cocoon himself away from Jonny. “How can you be gay and look your mother in the eyes?” 

Patrick is pretty sure all of the air in the room has vacated at his words. There are lines around Jonny’s eyes that are pulled tight in anger. Pat isn’t used to seeing them unless they’re in the locker room after a loss they shouldn’t have taken. He hates, and also relishes, the fact that it’s directed at him. 

“Because I can’t. I can’t fucking do it.”

Patrick can’t breathe. He can’t believe he’s just said those words out loud. It’s the first time he’s admitted it. He hasn’t even said it to himself and they sound terrible in the air, making him cringe with disgust. 

“Patrick,” Jonny releases a breath and Patrick can see the moment he understand what Patrick has just said. He can see when it registers and it looks like something inside Jonny breaks, just a little, like he understands how scared Patrick feels. 

“No one here is going to care if you’re gay.” Patrick flinches so violently it startles Jonny. He comes around to Pat’s side of the couch and curls his arms around the blanket burrito Pat has made, pulling his head to the center of Jonny’s chest. 

“Patrick,” he says again, “I know your mom and she’s not going to care if you’re gay. She’s going to care if you’re happy or not. Is that what this is about? You being gay?”

“Can you stop saying that?” Patrick hisses into the material of Jonny’s shirt, eyes watering with embarrassment and relief. “But yes, okay? I’m.. I try really hard to be normal and I’m not. It takes a lot of booze and then apparently I choke girls at frat parties.” 

He sniffles hard, making his ears ring as the air sticks in them and Jonny raises his hand to comb through Pat’s curls. It reminds him of how his mother used to lull him to sleep when he was just a kid and the thought makes everything seem so much worse. He’s definitely crying now, can feel the tears slipping from his eyes and onto the front of Jonny’s shirt where his cheek is pressed against it. 

“You’re going to be okay, Pat. We’ll figure this out.” Jonny keeps repeating himself and between his words and the hand in his hair, Pat falls asleep against him. 

When Patrick wakes up he’s in his own bed, but he feels better. His head is clear and if Jonny is still there for him, through Patrick pushing him away over and over again, through choking a girl in Madison and then crying into his chest, maybe Patrick can call his mother.

*

Road trips are always interesting, but its the hotel time that wears on Patrick. As a Blackhawk, he grew up sharing a hotel room with Jonny. It was never a good thing, he hated sharing with him and they were always screaming at each other. But now, all by himself, it gets boring. He's laying on his awful hotel bed, flipping through through the through the sports channels, when the adjoining door opens. 

He knows it’s Jonny because he’s literally the only person on the team who ever gets the hotel room next to his. It’s funny when Patrick thinks about it. If someone had told him when he first signed with the Blackhawks that Jonathan Toews would become his best friend, he probably would have punched them in the face. Or Jonathan, honestly. Now, though, he can’t imagine going a day without sending Jonny a stupid text about something he thought was funny or seeing him, at least once. 

“Is that my shirt?” Jonny asks, no preamble, no greeting. He’s standing in the entryway between the conjoined hotel rooms, leaning against the door jam and squinting at Patrick. 

Patrick’s first instinct is to say no, but then he actually peers down at the shirt in question and, well, fuck. It’s Jonathan’s, no questions about it. It’s one of his hockey shirts from World Juniors, too tight around Pat's shoulders, but too loose in the waist, and Patrick knows Jonny's name is on the back. 

Patrick shrugs. “Must’a left it at my place and it was clean, so I grabbed it and threw it into my suitcase.”

It’s a solid excuse, Patrick thinks. Jonny has left a lot of things here over the years, especially since they’ve gotten closer after two Stanley Cups and Patrick crying on Jonny the season in between them. 

Jonny hums and then shrugs and then turns away from Pat. “I’m gonna raid the vending machine, maybe I'll bring you something.” 

Patrick breathes a sigh of relief, because seriously, he has no excuse for this one. What could he say about hoarding Jonny’s clothes just so he could wear them, feeling close to Jonny when he couldn’t allow himself to admit to him the truth. 

Jonny is only gone for a moment, though, before he’s back, standing in front of Patrick with a smirk plastered to his face. “I've never worn that shirt around you.”

Patrick knows this. He knows this because he’s truly never actually seen Jonny wear this shirt. He had to pry it from the depths of a dresser drawer in Jonny’s room that he’s never even seen Jonny open. Fuck. 

“You went through my drawers.” Jonny is still smirking and Patrick isn’t sure why. 

Jonny crowds into his space, backing Patrick up against the bed, the hotel covers scratchy against his back where Jonny’s shirt has rucked up. Patrick wants to say something, but before he can open his mouth, Jonny’s lips are pressing against his and fuck, Patrick has wanted this for so long, has wanted this since he was thirteen years old. 

He gets a hand around the back of Jonny’s neck and holds him close, pushes everything he can at Jonny, trying to get him so feel how long he’s wanted this. He wants to hang onto this moment while it lasts, before Jonathan realizes what he’s doing and regrets this. 

Pat hears one of them moan, but honestly he’s not sure who made the sound because he’s too busy with the hot, slick, perfect feel of Jonny’s mouth against his and his tongue sliding across his lower lip. Patrick can’t help but open up to Jonny, letting him lick, press in and devour him. 

That’s how he feels, like Jonny is pulling him apart, and when Jonny steps back, nipping briefly at his bottom lip like a goodbye, he’s breathing hard but so is Patrick. He feels like he’s just poured everything out for Jonathan to see and suddenly he’s overcome with this overwhelming need for Jonny to know.

“Come with me,” Patrick says as he wraps his fingers around Jonny’s wrist, the television forgotten, and pulls him towards the bathroom.

“Don’t you think this is a little -”

“Shut up.” 

Jonny laughs and runs and hand through his hair. Looking over his shoulder, Patrick can’t remember a time when Jonny looked as good as he does now with his face flushed and his lips swollen. 

Patrick stops pulling Jonny behind him when they get to his bathroom. He can’t believe he’s going to do this, but he feels like he has to. He’s going to vibrate out of his skin if he doesn’t. Thirteen years of pent up anxiety over this very moment is coming to a head. 

“What are you -”

“Seriously, shut up,” Patrick repeats himself, pinching his lips together.

His shirt ends up in a heap at their feet and Patrick takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. Next to Jonathan he feels small, like he could be swallowed whole by Jonathan’s body. But that’s what he likes. He likes that Jonny looks like a giant next to him. He likes that Jonny could hold him down and make him take whatever he gave Pat, no more and no less. 

"You make me feel like I'm not good enough."

The words reverberate against the bathroom walls and Jonny looks like he wants to say something, but Patrick levels him with a gaze that makes him close his mouth. It’s one he’s taken from Jonny’s books, his captainly looks that mean business. 

"I just want a nice, easy life. What's wrong with that?" 

His makeup kit is under the sink. He can see Jonny’s gaze on him in the mirror as he bends down to grab it. Patrick feels like he’s going to throw up, hands shaking as he reaches out to unzip the case. 

Jonny stops him, taking Patrick’s hands in his own. They dwarf Patrick’s and it makes him feel safe. 

“Whatever you’re about to do, it’s going to be okay.”

Patrick has a flashback to 2012, sitting on his couch with Jonny’s arms around him as he pets his hair. 

It’s going to be okay. 

When he finally gets the case open, he pauses to look up at Jonny, gauging his reaction for what’s in it. He gives nothing away. Of course he doesn’t. Patrick’s hands are still shaking and he has to take a calming breath, taking the makeup remover from the case and pulling a cotton ball from the pack resting on the back of the toilet. 

"I just need you to know that this wasn’t just about you. It was about what was best for all of us." The words taste like nails in Patrick’s mouth and stick in the back of his throat. It’s awful that he doesn’t know what Jonathan is thinking. He just standing there, looking as debauched as he did in the laundry room, but his face is somber now, like he’s expecting to hear the worst. 

This could possibly be the worst. 

With the cotton swab soaked in makeup remover, Patrick drags it across his collarbone, through the caked on makeup. It takes three cotton balls in total, holding his breath as he works diligently. 

When he’s done, he can breathe again, but it doesn’t make anything better and he closes his eyes as he turns towards Jonathan, giving him full view to the words on his chest, the words he first spoke thirteen years ago. Patrick has heard those words many times since then and they’ve always hurt just as much as they did that very first time. 

Patrick never truly understood how silence could be deafening until this very moment. All he can hear is a ringing in his ears that won’t go away and his stomach rolls. He can feel the prickling beginnings of tears. His chest is aching with rejection.

He moves to turn away from Jonny, eyes still closed, when a hand stops him. It’s harsh, fingers biting into his skin so hard that Patrick knows it will bruise if they hold for a moment longer. 

“I said that.” Jonny looks as broken as he sounds, his face twisting into a grimace. 

“Uh, yeah.” Patrick can’t stand to look at Jonny. His face is burning, harsh and bitter eating up the residual happiness he felt at Jonny's lips against his. He can almost see the disappointment rolling off Jonny in waves and all he wants to do is hide. 

“I said that thirteen years ago, Pat.” Jonny does the math, looking like he’s been punched in the gut. 

“I was scared.” Patrick doesn’t know how to put into words how much he used to hated himself for being gay. It terrified him. It still terrifies him. 

“I didn’t think I could be gay and be a hockey player.” He pauses, voice softer, more vulnerable and he hopes Jonny doesn’t hear the shake in it. “I didn’t think I could be gay and be my mother’s son.” 

The look on Jonny’s face cracks, splits open and his shoulders sag like those words plucked the strings attached to Jonny’s shoulders that had been holding him upright. He looks sad. He looks like Patrick feels. 

Jonny blinks. “I never meant to make you feel like that.” 

“I know,” Patrick says, cupping Jonny’s face in both of his hands. It feels strange to have to reassure him when Patrick was the one who had been so, so scared of this moment. “Show me yours? I showed you mine.”

It makes Jonny laugh like Patrick hoped it would. Two of Jonny’s shirts end up on the bathroom floor, only one Jonny had been wearing, and before Pat can even laugh about that Jonny’s hands are pushing down the waist of his basketball shorts, giving way to an etching of words, dark and bold against his skin, the words Patrick had first spoken to Jonny, four years late. 

He reaches out before he knows what he is doing, fingers trailing the hollow of Jonny’s hip. “We picked some really shitty first words, huh?” 

Somehow that makes the tension dissipate. “Yeah, but we wouldn’t be us without ‘em.” 

It feels good to be standing there, both of them shirtless and smiling, marks on display for the whole world to see. Okay, maybe not the whole world. Patrick definitely wasn’t ready for that yet. But he can finally kiss Jonny, just like he’s always wanted to. 

So he does. 

*

It looks like Patrick has been mauled. Scratches run down the length of his back; everyone in the locker room can see Patrick has had some really good sex. They pull when he moves, a constant reminder that they're there, that he bears Jonny's mark. He still covers his words, but he wears these marks proudly.

“Who the hell did you pick up, Kaner?” Seabs snaps a towel at him as he walks by after showering, towel slung low on his hips and back on display. “I’m surprised our lovely captain isn’t throwing a fit about those damn things affecting your game.”

From where Patrick is standing at his locker, he can see Jonny perfectly. It’s opportune for ogling without being noticed, especially right now. Jonny can’t keep still, running a hand over the back of his neck when Seabs turns to snap his towel at Jonny. 

“Eh, Cap? You don’t care about Patty’s sex marks?”

“Don’t fucking call me-”

“Kaner can fuck whoever he wants.” Jonny is trying for nonchalant, Pat can tell, but it doesn’t quite reach. He sounds tight and controlled. It’s the same way he smiles at reporters after a tough loss. 

“But don’t you wanna know who marked our boy up?” Sharpy is trying to taunt Jonny, to goad him into snapping and asking Patrick who he’s been hooking up with when no one was paying attention. 

“Nope, I really don’t care.” The button on his jeans slides into place and Jonny frowns, having nothing else to busy his hands with. 

“Well I care! Peeksy, you gotta tell us what lady did you in real nice!” 

Sharpy means well, but Patrick can’t help the shiver of disgust that racks his body at the idea of letting a woman touch him, at letting another person touch him. His collarbone itches, feeling exposed, so he hurries and tugs his shirt over his head. His shoulders are wet from his curls dripping onto them and he tries to focus on that. He can tell Jonny is going to snap. He doesn’t really want to be in the room when it happens. 

“Peeksy!” Sharpy smirked. “Tell us who you’re banging!”

The entire locker room seems to erupt in chaos, all of them at once demanding to be informed on this new development in Patrick’s life. 

“It’s not new!” Jonny roars, effectively silencing the rest of the team. Patrick’s feet are suddenly glued to the floor. What the fuck. 

Seabs is the one who turns to Jonny, sly grin sliding onto his face and Patrick hates it there, hates that it means Seabs knows something about them. “Finally find your balls then, eh Jonny?”

“Fuck you, Brent,” Jonny hisses.

“Whoa, what do you mean finally?” Hammer cries, clearly upset he isn’t in on the joke. 

“Captain here has wanted to mark up Kaner since their rookie year. You know how many times I had to listen to him drunk crying on my couch about him?”

Seabs is laughing. The entire team is laughing. Patrick really doesn’t think this is funny. He’s waiting for the floor to swallow him whole, to wake up and realize this whole scene was a nightmare. 

“Yeah, let’s all laugh at my fuck up.” Patrick’s voice cracks, a syrupy hiccup that gives way to a quivering bottom lip. It still weighs on Patrick, what he put Jonny through because he was afraid of himself. He’s still afraid, but having Jonny by his side makes it a little easier. 

“I was terrified to tell you guys I was gay, and you’re all laughing like it’s just some fucking joke.”

The locker room turns dead silent. Jonny is the first one to move, pulling the gear bag from Patrick’s white knuckle grip and setting it on the floor at their feet. 

“We’re soulmates,” Jonny says, pulling on his captain voice. 

Patrick’s chest is burning; they did not discuss this.

“And if a single one of you has something to say about it, you will say it now. If you don’t say it now, don’t fucking say it at all.” He levels each person in the room with a gaze, individually, eyes trying to bore into their souls and purge whatever thoughts they were having from their bodies. 

“Yeah, I’ve got something to say about it.” 

Patrick whimpers. He adores Sharpy. He doesn’t want to hear whatever terrible things he has to say. 

“Barbeque at my place Friday because a fucking congratulations is in order!” 

The locker room erupts in cheers, loud shouts that make Patrick’s head spin. That.. was not what he expected. 

*

Grant Park is a beacon of color. The team is suited up for a reason entirely different than game day. Patrick is a bundle of nerves and Abby has shooed his mother out of the tent they have him sitting in twice already. There are tents everywhere, red and white and accented black because this Chicago and these are the Blackhawks. He remembers thinking that very same thing when he first came here, and here he is ten years later, pledging his entire life to this city. 

Abby has him holled away in a side tent, away from any of the real action. He’s eternally thankful because Patrick is going to throw up. His hands keep reaching up to fix his tie, a repetitive motion he has to keep stopping, a nervous tick.

“Patrick,” his father smiles, poking his head into the tent. “C’mon, it’s time.” 

Oh God. He is not ready for this. 

“Fuck,” Patrick chokes out, standing and rubbing his sweaty hands together. 

This part is entirely unnecessary. Chelsea Dagger rings out through the park. Patrick can’t help but grin at it, sweet memories bursting to the front of his mind. He can see Jonny, standing in front of the Buckingham Fountain. 

The entire park has been roped off and security is surrounding them to keep everyone out, but it’s still a public spectacle. This is sure as hell going to be on TV. Either is it now, or it will be later. Everyone gathered around the park is singing along to the opening of Chelsea Dagger, including the rest of the team, sitting in the white fold out chairs in front of Jonny. 

This is the most badass wedding march Patrick has ever seen and he’s ecstatic that he can say it’s his. 

Jonny is standing at the altar, the grin on his face nearly splitting him in two. That’s when the nerves leave Patrick. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be nervous when Jonny is there, smiling at him like that, and he’s surrounded by his team, his friends, his family. 

Patrick doesn’t know who let Teuvo become an ordained minister, but he kind of loves them for it. He’s half sure the whole thing will be in Finnish and they’ll have to get Kimmo to translate for them. 

His breath leaves him as he comes to stand in front of Jonny, beautiful, smiling Jonny, lacing their hands together and squeezing hard. He’s never been more in love with Jonny than he is in this moment. 

The ceremony isn’t in Finnish and Patrick is moderately disappointed, but their vows make up for it. 

There’s a light breeze, loud chatter from the fans gathered around the park, and everything feels perfect. Patrick’s vows are simple. 

“You’re still an asshole.” 

Seabs catcalls, just like he did the day he found out about them. 

“And that was still a fucking horseshit fucking call,” Jonny tosses back at him, mirth in his eyes as they play with the words inked into their skin. 

“My kids ears, assholes!” Sharpy yells at them, snickering quietly. Abby is sitting next to him, Maddy’s head tucked into her chest as if to shield her from their mocking. 

“You may now kiss the groom!” Teuvo interrupts the whole scene. Patrick is silently thankful. He’s needed Jonny’s lips on his for hours. 

This kiss is perfect, solid and blinding and it feels like coming home. Patrick has missed home for an awfully long time now, but this, this is perfect. He has his family and this city and the Blackhawks and Jonny. He doesn’t know what more he’s ever going to need. 

*

It turns out he needs one more thing. 

It’s opening day of the 2017-2018 season. Patrick is standing in the tunnel with the team, chest devoid of the A Jonny has been trying to get him to wear for years. Being married to Jonny has been easy, simple and uncomplicated. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, but he can’t stop thinking about this one last thing, this one thing he needs to show the world that means Jonny is his for keeps. 

He’s springing this on Jonny who’s standing ahead of him in the tunnel. Seabs is plastered to his back, hand perched on Patrick’s shoulder to ground him. 

“This moment belongs to you,” he whispers as the announcer calls Jonny’s name, watching him skate out onto the ice, waving to the fans as they cheer. 

The A’s go next and then it’s Patricks turn. There’s a pause, long enough that Patrick starts to worry. 

“Sorry, folks, I thought there was a typo on my roster, but it looks like there’s not. So next out is number 88, Patrick Toews!”

Seabs shoves him and then Patrick is skating onto the ice. He can see Jonny’s face, slack jawed and frozen. The entire United Center is silent. 

Jonny regains himself once Patrick skates to a stop in front of him. 

“You’re an asshole,”Jonny says.

“No, I think that’s you.” 

Patrick is laughing when Jonny pulls him into a kiss. The United Center starts screaming. 

That night, they destroy the Bruins and Patrick finally has everything he’s ever wanted, but had been too scared to truly hope for. 

He doesn’t have to hope for one second longer.


End file.
